


Then Love Until We Bleed

by SordidDetailsFollowing



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (not hannigram), (not underage), Alpha!hannibal, Alternate Universe - A/B/O, Blood and Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Imprinting, M/M, Murder, Omega!will, POV Hannibal Lecter, Past Rape/Non-con, Scenting, a/b/o dynamics, confused!hannibal, young!Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-13 20:39:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19258786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SordidDetailsFollowing/pseuds/SordidDetailsFollowing
Summary: Hannibal Lecter had never desired an omega of his own, despite the social pressures and expectations that were set upon alphas of high social standing such as himself. It was unexpected, then, to find himself stumbling upon one during an outing as the Chesapeake Ripper. It should have been a simple thing to cover his tracks and dispose of the creature, but it all became much more complicated the moment piercing blue eyes meet his.





	1. Bound to Linger On

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the Hannigram A/B/O Library for running the Hannigram A/B/O Big Bang this year! It was a joy to participate.
> 
> The gorgeous artwork at the end of the fic was done by the amazing Lasciva.
> 
> This work will be part 1 of 2. More to follow.
> 
> Work and Chapter Titles:  
> Love Until We Bleed - Kleerup with Lykke Li

Hannibal stood in the middle of the kitchen, carefully not touching any surface but the floor, and reluctantly scented the air.

The house smelled terrible. Stale leftovers and microwaved meals dominated his palate, nearly drawing bile to the back of this throat. Underneath lay the sour scent of sweat and unwashed sheets, generic soap and acrid motor oil, nicotine and cheap beer, and the heavy, bitter musk of unrestrained alpha pheromones. Not for the first time, Hannibal considered the necessity of wearing a surgical mask on these outings, but he ultimately refused to sacrifice aesthetic to such banal concerns as discomfort. 

He stepped smoothly through the kitchen into the narrow hallway on the other side, confident of where his prey resided in the house. The blare of tasteless television programming and the truly revolting scent were as obvious as a neon sign. Hannibal almost begrudged the incredible ease of it. No matter. He would still enjoy butchering the pig.

He rounded the corner into the living room with sure, even steps and stood before the couch with hands clasped politely in front of himself. 

“Hello, Jacob.”

Jacob Baumann blinked up at Hannibal from his unseemly slouch on the sagging sofa. 

“Who the fuck are you?” His eyes flickered downward, taking in Hannibal’s unusual wardrobe with some confusion, as he struggled to sit up straight.

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter.” He introduced himself with a polite incline of his head. “I am not surprised you don’t remember me.”

The man seemed caught somewhere between rage and pure, dumb bewilderment. Hannibal found it amusing, how even baser animals such as this were still bound by social custom and expectation. Still, with an unfamiliar intruder in his home, Mr. Baumann did not stand. He did not threaten to call the police. He did not even grab for a blunt object and launch an attack to defend his territory.

No. He engaged in the courteous conversation that Hannibal had set forth.

“Do I fucking know you?”

He was, undoubtedly, a very poor conversationalist.

Hannibal took a measured step forward, plastic coveralls crinkling softly over his burgundy suit. “We met once. Briefly.” Another step, and his prey finally staggered to its feet, pushing out gouts of foul aggressive pheromones now that the threat was approaching. “You work at the Bentley dealership on West Madison.”

Jacob’s hands clenched into meaty fists. “Yeah. So what?”

“So.” Hannibal tilted his head to one side, fixing the man with a cold stare and relishing the pulse of salty fear that tinged the air between them. “You deigned it appropriate to smoke a cigarette in my car as you drove it back from the garage.”

He had watched from the dealership lobby after a routine tune-up, silently furious, as the dirt-smudged man had hung his arm out of the window of Hannibal’s car and let the foul thing burn. The scent had lingered in his upholstery for days, and he’d continued to drive with the windows cracked for another week before the ashy taste of it had dissipated completely.

There was rage in the man’s beady brown eyes now, fueled by the warning chill that Hannibal’s unbridled alpha stare always evoked in others. “What the fuck are you on about? You’re gonna fuckin’ leave before I fuckin’ make you.”

“No, Jacob.” Hannibal’s lip curled at the taste of such an unworthy name in his mouth. “I won’t be leaving. Not until I’ve sliced you open from groin to collar and taken your kidneys and your heart.” 

Certainly not the lungs or the liver, as abused by tar and alcohol as they must be.

Mr. Baumann bared his teeth in a growl that was clearly meant to be intimidating. “Last warning. Get the fuck out of my house.”

Hannibal smiled benignly. “No. Thank you.”

The other alpha charged across the room, another growl ripping from his throat. He was not small, and there was clearly a fair amount of muscle underneath his layer of fat, but it was still a simple thing for Hannibal knock aside his swinging fist with the flat of one arm and twist to avoid his snapping teeth. Nose wrinkling at the overpowering stench of aggression and Jacob’s breath, Hannibal kicked out one of the man’s insteps and shoved him neatly off balance to wrap one arm tight around his thick neck, placing him in a secure chokehold.

It was all over in less than a minute, the pig straining red and purple against Hannibal’s tight grip until he sagged and went still, brain starved of oxygen too long to continue its meager machinations. Easy.

Disgustingly easy.

Hannibal let the dead weight drop to the ground with a thud, unconcerned by the awkward angle the man landed in, and set himself to clearing the living room for a suitable work space.

* * *

The scalpel gleamed dimly after he’d wiped it clean, no longer stained a rusty crimson by tainted blood. He’d sterilize it later, but at least now it was in adequate condition to tuck back into his work bag. He stuffed the bloodstained rags into a plastic Ziploc, peeled off his soiled gloves and replaced them with a clean pair. He would remove his protective coveralls at the car, to avoid leaving any trace evidence from his clothing.

Hannibal picked up his bag in one hand, everything packed away in its correct place, and took up the small cooler in his other. He paused for a moment to admire his work, eyes sliding over every inch of the masterpiece with possessive satisfaction. Jacob Baumann was something better now. No longer a waste of space, his beauty and scathing commentary would serve to benefit all who gazed upon his visage. Hannibal had split him open from collar to groin, as promised, peeling back the skin and muscle to expose his organs. He’d scraped and washed the lungs clean, revealing them to be blackened and clogged by years of smoke exposure.

His offending hands had been nailed to the floor at his sides, no longer able to defile those things which did not belong to him. It was not the subtlest of symbolism, but Hannibal knew the imbeciles at the Baltimore PD ( _and_ at the FBI, should his work actually be recognized as one of his own) would struggle to interpret it regardless.

He allowed himself a small smile, pleased with his work even though it had not been one of his more thrilling hunts, and strode back towards the hallway that led to the kitchen and back door. As he passed by the body, his ears pricked at the soft sound of a creaking floorboard.

Hannibal froze, head immediately turning towards a door to his right. He had noticed it before, quickly writing it off as a coat closet or spare bedroom, but had neglected to check inside. Jacob Baumann lived alone. He had no girlfriend. He never had friends over to his home. He was, for all intents and purposes, a loner. The ideal target. 

He stared at the door, and though there was no other sound or indication of life, he was sure of what he had heard.

Sighing under his breath, Hannibal set down his bag and the cooler and strode towards the room, footsteps silent on the hardwood floor. As he got closer, he observed that the door was not latched, but stood open just a crack. Enough, perhaps, to see out of. Seeing no further reason for stealth at this point, Hannibal gripped the brass handle and swung the door wide.

It was a spare bedroom, small and empty but for a twin bed, mattress bare and thin blanket tangled on the floor beside it. There was no other furniture, and no sign of the occupant Hannibal had heard moving inside just a few moments before. He inhaled, sure that his keen nose would not lie to him, and a flicker of displeasure crossed his face at what he smelled.

It was obvious, now. The cloying sweetness, tinged with unpleasant stress and pain. Burnt sugar and crushed basil, an undercurrent of pine sap and decay. An omega lived in this room.

Hannibal did not particularly care for omegas. He had never seen the appeal, no matter what other alphas or society at large had to say about them. He had never been attracted to their softness or seduction, had never been moved by their beguiling distress. Nor did he think the restrictive laws regarding them were at all just or fair, but he was not bothered enough to speak out or make any moves on the behalf of their gender.

He had treated many as both a surgeon and psychiatrist, and did come into some contact with those who accompanied their alphas to various society events, but had never met one that engaged his curiosity in the least. Several had attempted to imprint on him, over the years, but he had never responded to their advances, hormonally or otherwise. As he was in many things, Hannibal thought himself unique in his immunity to the pheromones that seemed to drive other alphas to their basic animal instincts. 

He supposed they could be aesthetically pleasing, in a sense, but the layers upon layers of social expectation and implied obligation surrounding the gender politics of alphas and omegas interacting kept Hannibal from any inkling of desire to obtain one for himself. All in all, he had no interest in omegas beside the verified fact that they bled and died just the same as everyone else.

Just as Jacob Baumann had bled and died. Just as this poor creature the mechanic had been keeping in this room would bleed and die.

Hannibal scanned the edges of the room and, finding the window barred shut and no closet, strode quickly to the side of the bed. He crouched down and reached into the gap beneath the bed frame. There was a sharp intake of breath, a sudden flood of bitter terror in the air, and Hannibal’s hand closed around a thin limb before any evasive movements could be made. He gripped it tight and yanked the omega out into the open.

He was a small thing, though Hannibal thought he must be in his late teens from the look of his bone structure. He had dark, unkempt hair that curled around his ears and clung to the back of his neck, and he wore loose boxers and a sweat-stained t-shirt. He cowered against the floor, curled into himself in an attempt to protect his soft stomach and vulnerable throat, and lay twisted awkwardly as a result of the chain shackling his left ankle to the iron headboard.

The sight of the restraint did not surprise Hannibal. It was clear that Mr. Baumann was not a man of enough status or means to obtain his own omega through any legal avenue, and his utter lack of charm and personality would obviously prevent him from keeping an omega here of its own volition. Still, it was distasteful in the extreme, and it soured Hannibal’s artwork by rendering it an incomplete and insufficient punishment for such a man.

And now he would have to dispose of the shivering thing that lay before him, cleaning up Jacob’s mess along with his own. It was an aggravating turn of events.

Hannibal released his bruising grip on the omega’s arm and rocked back on his heels, rising fluidly to stand once again. He would retrieve a knife from his bag, since this one would not be going anywhere in his short absence. He could just as easily break the boy’s neck, but the aesthetics of the scene he would be leaving behind demanded that he slit his throat instead. It would be nearly as quick.

He was ready to turn on his heel and depart the room, decision made, when the omega planted one unsteady hand on the floor and pushed himself up enough to turn his head and look at Hannibal. Their eyes met.

And oh.

Oh, no.


	2. We Drink the Fatal Drop

He had the bluest ocean eyes Hannibal had ever seen, shiny and clear despite the weakness evident in the rest of his body. Something lurched in the alpha’s stomach the moment that serious, searching gaze latched onto his. It was nothing he’d ever felt before. Not quite like illness or injury, and nothing close to the echoes of fear or panic that he could recall from his youth, either. It wasn’t arousal. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but it was unsettling. For the first time in years, Hannibal felt his heart rate rise without his permission.

As he watched, the omega’s pupils contracted slightly before expanding outwards to eat up the crystalline blue. Lips parted on another shaky gasp, and the boy’s pallid skin flushed to light pink over the lines of his cheekbones. Hannibal found his hands twitching forward, an aborted movement to reach out to the boy. To pull him up and into his arms. He grit his teeth and curled his hands into fists, appalled with himself.

This. This was not good.

He would still have to kill the boy. He had seen Hannibal’s face, now even if he had not managed to before. He was a threat. A loose end. Hannibal would not allow ridiculous alpha compulsions, nothing so ordinary and base as an _imprint_ , to disrupt his plans or compromise his security.

He forced himself to turn away and stride from the room, more off-put than he would have liked by the ache of discomfort that settled in his chest once the omega was no longer in his sight lines. He went to his bag to retrieve his scalpel, but returned instead to kneel beside the boy with a pair of small metal tines, which he used to quickly pick the lock on the iron shackle clamped around one skinny ankle.

The omega shifted against the floor boards, keeping his eyes fixed on Hannibal as he drew his knees into his chest and rubbed absently at his newly freed leg. He wasn’t too grimy, but dark watercolor bruises stood out against clammy skin, ringing his wrists and arms and dotting his thighs all the way up to the hem of his boxers. His hair hung in a tangled mess below his ears, stringy curls long enough to hide most of his neck from Hannibal’s sight.

“What’s your name?” Hannibal asked, consciously pressing his palms against his thighs when he felt the impulse to reach out and touch.

His eyes followed the subtle flex of the boy’s throat as he swallowed, then blinked, long lashes fluttering dark like little spiders. His voice came out cracked and weak, though Hannibal could not tell if it was made that way from disuse or overuse.

“Will.”

Will. William. A noble name. Classical. Epic. 

“You killed him.”

Hannibal blinked at the words, not quite a question or a statement, and watched as Will’s eyes flickered towards the open the door and back again.

He tilted his head just slightly to one side, considering. “Yes.”

There was no fear in Will’s steady stare, no flicker of panic or discomfort. He didn’t flinch away, attempt to hide or run. He didn’t whimper. He didn’t cry.

He wet his cracked lips with a flash of pink tongue and tipped his head back, raising his chin to bravely bare the pale column of his throat to Hannibal’s gaze.

“Thank you.”

Hannibal’s face remained a blank mask, betraying nothing of his inner surprise, but he was dreadfully aware of the tick of his own pulse jumping uneven beneath the skin of his neck. It was a rare occasion indeed that anyone succeeded in shocking Hannibal Lecter, and this particular situation was unique enough that he found himself at a bit of a loss. It was an interesting experience. 

He allowed himself a few moments to come to a decision, then stood in one fluid motion, not bothering with hesitation once he had settled on a course of action. He held out a gloved hand to the omega, wordlessly offering to help him up. 

Will’s grip was surprisingly strong when he slipped his fingers over Hannibal’s, but it did require a bit of effort to assist him to his feet. He steadied himself after a moment, and Hannibal forced himself to release the boy’s hand without lingering. He tore his eyes away as well and strode firmly from the room, expecting to be followed.

He paused beside his bag and cooler in the living room and turned on his heel to watch Will, curious what he would do. Hannibal had rarely had the opportunity to watch people witness his art in person, and he found himself undeniably intrigued by what Will’s reaction might be. 

The boy walked close to the wall, right hand hovering near his side as if he may have to reach out and catch himself against it, but his steps were measured and steady. He slowed to a stop halfway across the room, gaze fixing on the spread open body arranged so neatly in the middle of the floor. Hannibal found himself holding his breath as bright blue eyes roamed over every inch of his masterpiece, and could not help but be the slightest bit impressed by the steely flash of satisfaction he saw there.

Will was vindicated to see his captor reduced to such. If he was bothered by the blood and gore, or disturbed by the unapologetic mutilation, he didn’t show it in the least. Something warm and gratified churned in the pit of Hannibal’s stomach, pleased, and he felt the itch of a purr at the base of his throat.

He swallowed it back, vaguely horrified with himself, and bent to pick up his things. 

“Stay.” He ordered, fixing the omega with a look before he turned on his heel and made his way back down the hall and into the dysfunctional kitchen. He set his things down on a clear portion of counter and set about rifling under the sink for something that suited his needs. He was irritated by the dull ache that returned to the space behind his ribs with the boy left out of sight. This entire endeavor had turned into a regrettable inconvenience, and he really would be better off just slitting the omega’s throat and leaving it be.

He told himself it was simply curiosity that was staying his hand, only for a short while, and ignored the way he nearly rushed on his way back to the living room. 

He found Will closer to the hall when he returned, as if he had drifted after Hannibal in the brief interval they had been separated. He looked very small, all pale limbs and eyes too large for his face. Hannibal found himself momentarily stalled before he forced himself back into action. He set about dousing the living room in paint thinner and cheap whiskey, ducking back into Will’s bedroom to catch the bed as well.

Hannibal spread the accelerant towards the kitchen, walking backwards with sure steps, and Will trailed after him without having to be asked. Once they stood together near the back door, he tossed the empty containers aside and produced a box of matches from his bag. He lit one and tossed it, sweeping up his things as the alcohol caught and flared bright. Then he held the door open for Will to step out into the night (only to assist in making their escape a quick one – Baumann did not have close neighbors but it was only a matter of time before someone spotted the light of the fire). 

By the time they reached the car, Will was shaking. He did not make a sound of complaint or discomfort, but his teeth chattered in his skull and his arms trembled where they were crossed over his chest. It wasn’t very cold out, but he was only clothed in a thin shirt and boxers, standing barefoot in the grass. Hannibal weighed the possibilities of chilliness and shock, and found them both equally likely. 

Resisting the urge to do something ridiculous, like gather the boy into his arms and hold him until the cold dissipated, Hannibal left him to lean against the side of the car and circled back to the trunk. He stripped out of his protective coverings and tucked them into a trash bag, then retrieved a light jacket from his emergency change of clothes. He quickly stored his tools and winnings before shutting the trunk again. Will was staring up at the sky when Hannibal returned to him, an unreadable expression on his young face, and he only refocused when Hannibal slung the jacket over his shoulders and tugged it snug, making sure the boy’s arms were covered.

Unwilling to fuss any further, Hannibal stepped aside to open the passenger side door.

“Get in.”

Will did so without hesitation, sliding unsteadily into the seat and fumbling for the seatbelt before he was shut inside. Hannibal wondered if he was afraid. He wondered if the boy assumed he was safe now, because of the stress-induced hormonal imprint he had attempted back in the house. He tried to muster more resentment over the audacity of such an assumption, but all he felt as he rounded the car to the driver’s side door was unsettled. Perhaps a bit… Anxious. And what a horrid sensation that was, as unusual to Hannibal as such distant experiences like fear or indecision. 

He chalked it up to hormonal responses, and settled on being curious as to why it was that he reacted to _this_ omega’s call and no other’s. It would be useful to find out why. And there was his reason for keeping the boy alive a while longer - it was an advantageous decision, to flesh out his own body’s chemical vulnerabilities.

Reassured of his own sound mind, Hannibal took a breath of fresh air before ducking into the car and starting the engine.


	3. Then Love Until We Bleed

They pulled out onto the street and drove past the house, a flickering orange glow visible through the front windows. Will stared back at it until they turned the corner, lips pressed tightly together.

“Why did you burn it?” He asked after a moment, voice soft and hoarse. “Your work…”

Hannibal blinked at the question, surprised by the astuteness of it. “They would search for you, should any evidence of your existence be left behind.”

The boy seemed to accept that easily enough, nodding with a shaky dip of his head as he continued to peer out the windshield. There seemed to be a hint of regret in the turn of his mouth, but Hannibal didn’t look long enough to be sure.

He drove them out of the run-down suburb and pulled onto the interstate in short order, no sound but the drone of tires on pavement and the nearly silent puffs of breath that fell from Will’s parted lips. Neither of them spoke as the minutes ticked by and they circled to another end of the city, taking a circuitous route that was removed from any location Hannibal frequented in his daily life. With nearly half an hour’s distance between them and the ash they’d left behind, he pulled off into a discrete long-term parking facility where he rented a space under a pseudonym. 

Will didn’t ask any questions as Hannibal ushered him out of the spare car and pulled open the door of his Bentley for the omega to climb inside. He shut him in and left him there for a few minutes while he emptied the older car and efficiently wiped down the surfaces with his own mix of ammonia and water. He kept an eye on the Bentley the entire time, annoyed by the itch of illogical worry that Will would suddenly disappear while he was out of sight. 

Once he was done and had tucked everything into his usual vehicle’s trunk, he circled to the driver’s side and slid into the seat with ease, some of the tension bleeding unconsciously from the line of his shoulders. Will glanced over at him as he started the car and pulled smoothly out of the space, and his gaze felt almost like a physical touch on Hannibal’s tingling skin. 

When they had exited the garage and found their way once more to the interstate, Will cleared his throat softly, the sound dry and slightly painful. Hannibal absently wished that he had a bottle of water to offer him.

“Are we near Washington DC?” He asked, eyes fixed on the passing scenery. 

Hannibal mused on the question, inferring that DC must have been the last place that Will was aware of his location. 

“We are not far.” He allowed. Then, after a beat of consideration, “This is Baltimore.”

It might not have been wise to inform the boy of their location, but Hannibal did not plan on keeping him around long enough for the knowledge to pose any danger, so he didn’t see the harm in telling this small bit of truth.

“Baltimore.” He repeated in a small voice, quiet enough that he might have been speaking to himself. “Must be more than a thousand miles from New Orleans.”

New Orleans. Something in Hannibal’s stomach sparked warm with the knowledge of where Will came from. Now that he thought about it, he could indeed hear the faint hint of a creole accent in the curl of his sparsely spoken words.

“How long has it been since you were taken from there?” He asked evenly, finding himself hungry for more information.

And he must have been taken. Whether from his home, though that was a less common occurrence, or from the street, it was certain that Will had not stumbled into this situation on his own. Hannibal could never imagine any omega, let alone one such as him, choosing to be with such an ignorant brute as Mr. Baumann. Omega trafficking was highly illegal and generally condemned, but that didn’t stop the underground market from thriving around the world. 

Will took a few seconds to respond, perhaps trying to calculate the passage of time in his head. “Two… Maybe two years, I think. ‘M not sure.”

He shivered, then, shrinking back into the seat as he pulled the alpha’s jacket tighter around himself.

Hannibal reached for the dashboard without thinking, turning the heat on high even though it was a fairly comfortable temperature in the car already. He resettled his hands on the steering wheel, nostrils flaring slightly as the vents blew hot air and circulated the omega’s scent until it filled the confined space.

“How old are you?” He asked, the words coming out just a bit rougher than before as he tried to stifle the vague itch in his teeth and throat.

“Nineteen.”

Nineteen. He looked younger. It made sense, given the treatment he had undoubtedly received over the past months, that his development may have been stunted slightly.

“I was put in foster care.” He continued quietly, unprompted. “But I never made it to the group home. Someone…” He took a short, unsteady breath, and Hannibal found himself gritting his teeth, fingers tightening over the wheel. “Someone from the system took me somewhere else and then…” He turned his face away, staring out the window, but Hannibal could see him blinking in the glass reflection. It took a minute for him to break the silence again.

“They kept me drugged for a long time, I think. It’s hard to remember. And then when I woke up I was in a house I didn’t recognize, tied down to someone’s bed.”

Hannibal seethed, shocked by the vicious fury tearing at his insides and stinging in his veins, but he couldn’t quite manage to smother it down despite knowing how illogical such a reaction was. He couldn’t help but wish that he could kill that vile man again, just to do it more slowly and infinitely more painfully.

As if reading his thoughts in the flash of streetlights sliding by, Will half-turned back towards him. “It wasn’t Jake. It was someone else, rich and important. A politician, I think.” He sighed, a small, tired sound. “I ran when I got the chance one day. Got pretty far, too, before some guys caught up to me and grabbed me in the middle of a hospital waiting room.”

It took a concerted effort for Hannibal to lock the growl in the back of his throat, not allowing it to escape.

Will was staring out the windshield again, eyes dull and tone factual as he recounted the rest of his story. “They were… Not happy with me. And I guess the rich guy didn’t want me back after that, because eventually I got sold off to Jake and… That was a while ago.”

They fell into silence, Hannibal’s mind alight with the hundred bloody ways he could hunt down each of these men and flay them alive. He had never cared for the misfortune of others, but hearing Will recount what was done to him and filling in the blanks between his words was making the alpha ache with a fierce hunger for violence.

It took him a minute to calm himself, intentionally taking slow, deep breaths through his nose. Will’s scent permeated the car, filling his senses and dampening the rage in his belly. The burnt sugar and natural decay were still the strongest, sharply cloying and disagreeable, but there were hints of something fresher and greener hiding underneath.

Before long, they were pulling onto Hannibal’s street. It was still early enough, the sun not yet creeping above the horizon, that he was not worried about any of his neighbors spotting Will in his front seat. They pulled easily into his garage without seeing another soul, and Hannibal had the door shutting once more behind them with a click of a button. 

Will unclipped his seatbelt as Hannibal turned the car off, reaching easily for the door to let himself out. Hannibal’s hand shot out to grip the omega’s wrist, stopping him before he could leave the car.

The boy looked back at him, clearly surprised, and their eyes caught and held. Something under Hannibal’s skin buzzed, and he parted his lips enough to bare the edges of his teeth.

There was no fear on Will’s face, no anxiety in his gaze. 

Hannibal tried to wipe his face clean of all expression, fixing the boy with a steady, icy stare. “You’re not free, you know.” He made sure that Will was looking at him, that he understood. “I won’t be letting you go.”

Will blinked, and a slow, wistful smile curled the edges of his mouth. “I know.”

It was Hannibal’s turn to blink, nonplused. 

“That’s okay.” The boy continued, something almost tender in his voice. “I don’t mind if you kill me. Or keep me.”

Yet again, Hannibal found himself at a loss.

And in the heat of the car, silently searching the depths of cerulean eyes, an idea occurred to him for the first time.

Perhaps he could. 

Keep him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep an eye out for part 2: featuring care taking, possessive!Hannibal, bed sharing, and other fluff.


End file.
